


like a permanent sticking charm (you're stuck with me)

by writingmonsters



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, Hogwarts House Sorting, Hogwarts House Sorting Ceremony, Platform 9 3/4, Porthos Runs Into Athos on the Platform, Quite Literally, The Sorting Hat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:30:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingmonsters/pseuds/writingmonsters
Summary: It's Porthos's first year at Hogwarts and he quite literally runs into Athos waiting for the Hogwarts Express. He decides this one is friend material and he's keeping him. Athos is pretty much just along for the ride.





	like a permanent sticking charm (you're stuck with me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R00bs_Teacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/gifts).



The Du Vallon household descends on Platform 9 ¾ on September 1st, an hour and a half before the Hogwarts Express is expected at the station. It's a flurry of rushing commuters and moving bodies and no one takes much notice of the odd passenger who disappears into the expanse of brickwork between Platforms 9 and 10.

"What if you go too slow through the wall – would you get stuck?"

Porthos Du Vallon is newly eleven, with tight curly hair and soft dark eyes and a smile like sunshine that shows a missing left incisor. His trunk has been packed and re-packed with Flea’s old spell books, the new wand from Ollivander’s, Charon’s old robes that have been carefully mended and let out as far as they can possibly go at the seams.

He cannot _wait_ to get to Hogwarts.

"You wouldn't get stuck, silly." His sister, Flea, is two years older, a Ravenclaw, and is not impressed by anything anymore. "It doesn't work like that."

Porthos bounces on his toes, ricochets off Charon who makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat. Charon, also two years older, is a Slytherin and even less impressed than Flea. "Knock it off, Porthos," he insists. "It's not like you haven't done this before."

"Yeah, but this time _I get to come too_."

Porthos decides a running start across the platform is in order – just in case. He scuffs the soles of his trainers against the station floor, braces himself behind the trolley cart with his precariously balanced trunks, and he hears his mother's fondly despairing " _Porthos_ " as he lets out a whoop and charges the solid wall of brick.

No matter how many times he does it, he still expects the wall to be a wall. Braces himself for a crash and a splat and catastrophe – instead he is met with an _'oomph'_ and a pair of calloused, work-rough hands that catch the front of the luggage trolley, stopping him short.

"Merlin's Beard, where are you off to in such a rush?" His Uncle Treville grins down at him, all rakish sandy moustache and twinkling eyes. "The train's not even here yet." Of course, Treville is not really his uncle, according to Flea, but he is kind and serious and regards Porthos with all the solemnity that his eleven years deserve. And sometimes he sneaks caramels for the little ones when Marie-Cesette pretends not to be looking.

"You gotta run at it," Porthos informs Treville seriously, balancing on one foot to scratch at an itchy ankle with the toe of his shoe. Behind him, the rest of the Du Vallon cohort emerge onto the platform at a more reasonable pace. "If you're too slow you'll get stuck in the wall."

"Ah." Treville's eyebrows go up, absorbing this new information as though he cannot believe he hadn't realized it before. “Of course – how could I not realize?” He reaches across the luggage trolley to scoop little toddler Samara from her foster mother's arms, all warm smiles and friendly eyes. “Do you think Hogwarts is ready for another Du Vallon, Marie?”

Marie-Cesette beams, ghosting her palm over Porthos’s riot of thick curls. “They’d better be – I don’t think there’s any stopping this one.”

The hollow of the station reverberates then, with the low chug of the steam engine’s pistons. “ _It’s here_!” Porthos feels every nerve in his body stand up and _sing_ with delight. And the Hogwarts Express answers his shout with a shrill, steam-puff whistle that goes through his eleven-year-old body like sparks off a live-wire.

Porthos takes off running, a tornado of churning limbs and robes that will have to be let out at the seams again in three months’ time.

“Now, wait a minute-”

“Porthos!”

He ducks in and around the press of bodies – wizarding robes in all cuts and colors – dodging trunks and trolleys and families of returning students and newcomers. Muggleborn students gaping at the passing cages of owls and broomsticks and floating luggage.

And Porthos stops short. He is tall for eleven, and broad, but he still has to crane his neck up and up to take in the slick black curve of the Express’s engine. The jut of the funnel, the sleek gold gilt-work along the wooden carriage faces. He has seen the train before – has watched it pull into the station to ferry Flea and Charon off to Hogwarts for three years now – but this time. This time, he will be on board too.

“Porthos!”

His name again, caught up among the porters calling and parents admonishing and friends shouting to one another as they clamber for the carriage steps. Flutterings of blue and green and red and yellow. Alumni and returning students decked in their house colors.

Treville materializes at Porthos’s left shoulder, making noises about how he shouldn’t run off like that or he might be lost in the crowds. Samara admonishes him too, although with fewer coherent words, her little eyebrows pulled into a serious scowl.

Porthos is not terribly worried, though. He has always been at home in a crowd, in the middle of chaos. And he knows exactly where he is and where he left his mother and the push-cart so there’s no need to fuss, really.

“I know you’re excited, Porthos,” Marie-Cesette sighs when she hustles up to them, tucking stray curls of hair behind her ears as she reaches to reclaim Samara from Treville. “But you’ve got a few minutes yet – don’t you think you can run off and leave me without a proper goodbye.”

Their trunks are passed off to the porter and loaded and Marie-Cesette smothers her children fondly with kisses and embraces. Smooths their hair, rubs the smudges from their cheeks, tweaks Flea’s blue tie straight and smooths the wrinkles from Porthos’s front.

“Charon, I wish you the best of luck at the Quidditch tryouts, my darling. Flea, sweetheart – write me often? Porthos.” She stops, chucks him under the chin with her soft fingertip. “Just be your sunshine self, my sweet boy. You’ll make lots of friends.” A sideways glance up at Treville. “You will keep an eye on them, Jeanne?”

Porthos’s uncle, after all, is returning to Hogwarts as well – ready to plunge elbow-deep into the library stacks and parchments, picking up the new History of Magic curriculum this term. Treville nods, giving Marie-Cesette Du Vallon his most solemn promise. “Both eyes,” he assures her. The eyes in question are pale, near colorless in the light. “As often as they can be spared.”

One more kiss, dropped onto each of their impatient foreheads. Marie-Cesette glows, studying each of her children in turn as she reminds them “remember, I love you all to bits.”

And Porthos is all but bouncing again. Flea and Charon will head their separate ways, off to find their friends and their own spots on the train away from their kid brother and their roguish, shabby uncle and he is ready to get on the train – to introduce himself to the new round and nervous faces in the carriage windows, to be whisked away to Hogwarts and his chance at the Sorting Hat and proper magic lessons.

The call goes out at the front of the train for first years “ _all aboard_!” and Porthos is off like a bat out of hell.

“Watch where you’re going, Porthos!”

“ _Merlin’s Beard_!”

It’s unstoppable force meets immoveable object, and suddenly Porthos is on the ground in a tangle of limbs, and there’s another smaller set of wriggly limbs underneath him and Treville is making worried eyeballs at the other adults who are all wide-eyed and starchy-looking in their dress robes.

“I’m so sorry-”

“Jeanne Treville – what a surprise!” The man’s aristocratic features break into a broad smile, looking from Porthos to Uncle Treville and back again. Porthos’s shoulders slouch in relief. “Is he one of yours?”

“My nephew, Porthos Du Vallon.” Treville says it with such pride even as he watches the scrappy, giggly boy scramble to his feet. “Just starting his first year.”

“Oh, so is our Athos.” A smooth wave of the hand indicates the lump of arms and legs sorting itself out on the floor at Porthos’s feet. Mister La Fere sniffs delicately. “Going to continue the family legacy and make us all proud.”

“A Gryffindor then?” Treville’s forehead wrinkles.

“Oh, sure of it.”

“I’m going to be a Gryffindor too!” This, from the wriggling boy with his dress robes askew who stomps his feet, tugging insistently at Madame La Fere’s hand. “Maman – how come Athos gets to go to school and I can’t?”

“You’re still too little, Thomas.”

Thomas sticks out his bottom lip. Porthos thinks he is very, very glad that Thomas La Fere will not be joining them at Howarts. He isn’t quite sure about Athos either, who watches him through his eyelashes and hasn’t made a sound except to yelp in surprise at being bowled over by Porthos who hadn’t been looking where he was going.

Porthos decides an apology is in order. He ducks his head, twists a little bit to try and meet Athos’s wide eyes, putting on his friendliest smile. “M’sorry I ran into you – I wasn’t lookin’. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Athos La Fere has the biggest, greenest eyes Porthos has ever seen – half hidden behind a flop of fluffy hair – and just as quickly as he darts a look at Porthos, he looks away again, scrunching up his nose. “M’fine.”

“But I’m already better at transfigurations than Athos!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mister La Fere counsels Thomas patiently. “You have to be eleven.”

The conductor calls again for first years to board.

Athos looks fidgety.

“Come on.” Porthos makes a decision. He reaches out and catches one of Athos’s small hands in his own, giving him a tug. “Do you have someone to sit with? You can sit with me – we’ll ride together. My brother and sister are on the train too, but they don’t want to sit with me because it’s not _cool_ , which I think is stupid.” And he’s babbling, towing Athos along toward the train and their parents are waving and Porthos waves back and Hogwarts is waiting.

They find an empty compartment and Porthos shuffles Athos inside, still blathering away about Charon and Flea and the things they’ve told him about Hogwarts and how he can’t wait to see the castle and how long it’ll be before they get Sorted.

“We’re all over the place in my family,” Porthos says, sitting back against the cushions. “Flea’s a Ravenclaw and Charon’s a Slytherin. My mum was a Hufflepuff. Uncle Treville was a Gryffindor, but he’s not really my uncle so I don’t know if it counts.”

“And you don’t mind that you’re all sorted in different houses?” Athos kicks his legs against the seat – he is shorter than Porthos by far – curious.

“Nah,” Porthos waves a hand, blustering. “Makes things more fun that way. Especially during the Quidditch matches.”

Athos's smile, when it appears, is small and bright and makes his green eyes crinkle up. He scoots himself into the corner of his seat, rests his head against the window and draws his knees up to his chest, saying softly "your family sounds different – good different. Fun."

"Yeah," Porthos agrees happily. "They are."

He tells Athos stories of his foster siblings; how Charon was training to be a Chaser and so he'd made Porthos and Flea stand in the yard and throw beanbags at him on his broom so he could practice dodging. How Flea had turned all their flowers funny trying out gardening spells. How Samara was fascinated with Uncle Treville's mustache and loved to pat it.

Athos is very quiet, his bottom lip stuck out as he listens – deep in thought.

"Am I talkin' too much?" Porthos finally pauses for breath. "You can tell me if I am, I won't mind."

"No," Athos shakes his head quickly. "No, it's… good." And he gifts Porthos with another one of those small, shy smiles. Porthos has quickly decided that he wants to make Athos smile as often as possible. Even better, he wants to make him laugh.

"Okay."

In the relative stillness of the carriage compartment, Porthos takes the moment to study his new friend more carefully. He is an excellent judge of character, if he does say so himself, and Athos La Fere is quiet and shy and serious and perfect friend material. Porthos is going to keep him.

They are half-an-hour from Hogwarts when the compartment door slides open, fast and sudden, and a wild-eyed boy with flyaway dark hair flings himself through the gap talking a mile a minute. "Hello – name's Aramis, very nice to meet you. Sorry to barge in, can I hide here?" As he speaks he rolls the compartment door closed again, pulling down the privacy shutters – all frantic movement and loose, flapping sleeves.

"Why do you need to hide?" Athos uncurls himself in his seat, frowning.

Aramis turns to face them, hands on his hips, grinning enormously. His dark eyes gleam. "You probably shouldn't ask – but it involves a miniature Weasley Whiz-bang and a compartment three cars down."

Athos says "uh oh."

A cacophony of footsteps fills the corridor outside the compartment. Shadow silhouettes on the privacy screens. Several serious, unhappy voices say "where did he go?" and "can't believe a first year's already causing so much trouble" and "not since those Weasley twins…"

Porthos says "get up in the overhead bin."

Aramis says "oh, brilliant. I like you."

Standing on the cushions, Athos gets the overhead luggage storage open and Porthos boosts Aramis into the empty luggage compartment where he curls his knees up and makes bulging eyes at them before Athos slams the cabinet closed again. They collapse into their seats just as the door slides open again, revealing the conductor and a pair of scowling professors – Porthos thanks Merlin that Treville is not one of them.

"Hello," says Athos brightly, sitting up straight and polite. "Is everything all right, professors?"

"You haven’t seen a boy your age come this way? Name of Aramis d’Herblay." One of the professors pokes his head into the compartment, looks from ceiling to floor – sees only Athos and Porthos looking the picture of innocence. "Or any pyrotechnics? Joke shop paraphernalia?"

" _Singed_?" Athos makes his eyes wide and horrified. Guileless. "No sir. We haven't seen anyone – it’s just been the two of us in here, and neither one of us would _ever_ think about getting involved with something like that. Fireworks on the train – isn’t that dangerous?”

Porthos stares at him.

The conductor sniffs. “Indeed, young man. You’re sure you’ve seen nothing? Heard nothing?”

Athos says, earnest, " _no_. Not a peep. I hope you find whoever was causing the trouble, though."

With a firm nod, the trio of adults withdraws. Athos flicks his eyes to Porthos, the pair of them holding their breath as they listen to the muttering voices fading away down the length of the train car. Porthos holds his breath, feels his insides twitch, and Athos quirks the corner of his mouth and Aramis’s voice from the luggage rack says “are they gone?”

There’s nothing for it. Porthos collapses all over Athos, cackling, and Athos giggles helplessly and Aramis wriggles himself down from the overhead compartment looking flustered and inordinately pleased with himself.

“ _Your face_!” Porthos is howling, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes he is laughing so hard. “You were… so serious… such a good liar… _Merlin’s beard_! That was incredible! _You looked so serious_!”

Athos is flushed, pink-cheeked and delighted, watching Porthos laugh with a look like the other boy had hung the moon and stars.

“Thanks for the assist,” Aramis says with a crooked grin, tugging his robes straight.

Porthos looks him up and down, considering, and asks, “you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those miniature whiz-bangs would you?”

“Afraid not,” Aramis sighs, digging into his pocket. “Got an exploding whizz popper or two for your trouble, though. Thanks for the hiding place.” And he slips the firecrackers into Porthos’s cupped palms before glancing up and down the car and then breezing back out of the compartment as suddenly as he had appeared.

Athos, still ruffled and bright-eyed says “that was _weird_.”

“Absolutely,” Porthos agrees. “But now we got whizz poppers.”

“ _Porthos_.” Athos makes wide, nervous eyes at him.

Porthos suspects things falling under the category of ‘antics’ were frowned upon in the La Fere house. He reassures him, saying “I’m not gonna get us in any trouble. Promise.” And then, “ _ohlookitsHogwarts_!”

They crowd the window, shoulder to shoulder watching as the castle draws up alongside them in the distance. And they are herded off the train into a chaos of students, all in matching robes, jostling one another with shoulders and elbows and stepped-on feet as the first years are gathered. And Porthos has hit his first growth spurt already, is one of the larger first years among them, but Athos is still very short and he’s going to get _lost_ – Porthos snatches him by the sleeve to reel him in, gets a firm hold on his hand. Athos squeezes his fingers.

The lake is mirror-smooth, reflecting the orange lantern light as they drift across in the boats that seem to row themselves. And Porthos is practically vibrating with anticipation. He is ready to be welcomed into the Great Hall – cannot wait for the ceremony of it all, the speeches and the Sorting and the celebration. Athos looks like he might be sick.

When the doors to the Great Hall are thrown open, groaning on their massive hinges, Athos leans up to Porthos’s ear and asks in an quiet, frightened voice “will you still be my friend if we get sorted in different houses?”

Porthos squeezes his hand tighter and says “don’t be ridiculous. ‘Course I will. That’s a stupid question.”

He is so glad his last name starts with a ‘D’. He can’t imagine being one of the students who has to wait until the end of the alphabet to be sorted.

They spot Aramis – whose last name, d’Herblay, comes before Porthos – and shake with silent laughter when he bounds gracefully up the steps, grinning at them all like he has just been presented with a great and well-deserved honor. Aramis is sorted into Slytherin.

Porthos fidgets on the edge of the bench.

“Ninon de Laroque?”

She is sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Porthos du Vallon?”

He bursts off the bench – nearly knocks Athos off in his excitement. His whole body sings with excitement, bright with elation. Porthos hardly thinks he walks from his seat to the front of the hall – he must apparate. One moment he is next to Athos and the next he has mounted the steps and is being guided onto the stool, grinning madly, the Sorting Hat lowered onto his head.

The moment the brim touches his forehead, its raggedy voice addresses him. “ _Well – interesting. Certainly the brains for a Ravenclaw, clever type.”_ He thinks of Flea. “ _Oh, and a sister there already? Hmm. There’s a thought – but no. Perhaps it’s Gryffindor for you, where hearts are brave and good_?” The Hat pauses, and Porthos thinks the decision is made, waits for the shout to ring across the Hall. “ _But no – a better place for that heart of yours. A house where hard work, loyalty, and fair play are valued best._ HUFFLEPUFF.”

Porthos beams.

A Hufflepuff. Just like his mother. And, half in a daze, he is directed to sit with his house – is welcomed with cheers and pats on the back and a thousand greetings and shakings of his hand. But he can’t settle yet. He cranes his neck to see Athos across the room, still waiting with the rest of the first years. He has to see where he gets sorted.

The list of names seems to go on forever before they call him.

“Athos La Fere?”

Where Porthos felt like he had flown to the front of the Hall, the walk feels like an eternity to Athos. It’s expected that he will be sorted into Gryffindor, just like his parents and his grandparents and their grandparents and all the La Feres before him. Another point of pride in his pureblood household. His knees feel like they’re melting and his lungs are quavery and he folds like a broken marionette onto the stool.

The Sorting Hat blows a raspberry in his ear. “ _Nervous Nargle_!” it teases. “ _Scaredy Snorkack! Afraid to be sorted, are we_?”

Athos shrinks.

“ _Gryffindor’s the family thing, eh? Those chivalric folk of daring and nerve. You have it in you – chivalry’s the game for you_.” And maybe that will be the end of it. “ _But the house of toil is better suited to you. Loyalty, justice – ah! Loyalty, yes. You want to follow the nice, lovely one? Your friend? No doubt._ HUFFLEPUFF.”

Porthos cheers the loudest when Athos, looking stunned and a little frightened, stumbles across to the black-and-gold draped table on wobbly legs. “It’s you and me,” he proclaims, keeping one arm draped around Athos’s shoulders when they settle down at the table. “Inseparable now!”

Athos likes the sound of that.

**Author's Note:**

> For the delightful, wondrous R00bs_Teacup who came up with the idea of Porthos and Athos meeting on their journey to Hogwarts as first years and becoming fast friends and who was the one to devise the brilliant headcanon that Porthos is a Hufflepuff and most of the headcanon regarding Athos's sorting - he could fall into Gryffindor (read: chivalry and honor) but in this case the prompt called for Athos mostly being chill with wanting to follow Porthos.


End file.
